The parlor was only magical at Christmas. The rest of the year, it was a stage set showing how far my grandparents had come from their humble, rural beginnings. The attic, however, was always magical. There were stained glass windows reaching to the floor; trunks full of ballgowns, some of which were almost a century old; souvenirs from my great-uncle’s Grand Tour of Europe; my great-grandfather’s sleigh bells, and books everywhere. I can still remember its dusty smell, especially on summer afternoons. I still can’t believe my mother sold the house and contents after her parents’ death, and kept nothing.